


disciplinarian, lover, murderer

by talionprinciple (Triskai)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Come Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Light Bondage, Lightplay, M/M, Other, a lot of predation metaphor, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskai/pseuds/talionprinciple
Summary: “I’m the only one that trusts you.”“You don’t trust me,” Felwinter insists, suddenly intense.
Relationships: Felwinter/Timur (Destiny)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	disciplinarian, lover, murderer

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a lore entry in Bungie's 1994 game, MARATHON, which incidentally contains my favorite AI character of all time, Durandal. To me, Rasputin and Felwinter each have aspects of Durandal reflected in them. Rasputin: a desire to excel, to become like God. Felwinter: a need to escape, to be free.
> 
> [tw: animal death for this snippet]  
>  _He tumbled through the bars, spinning and turning, he could see a man. In his hand he saw a small white rat. A pounding, the crashing waves in his ears became rhythmical, hard. The man was beating the rat against the floor. Pounding, pounding. Blood covered his hands, the man's hands tingled. He had broken them on the floor of the cell. Disciplinarian, lover, murderer. Gheritt looked back into the cell. He saw himself, disciplinarian, lover, murderer. He had killed his nemesis. The rat lay dead in his bloody hands. At last, he held the throat of his beater._

“This is where SIVA is, then. Site 6.”

“Yes.”

They’re in Felwinter’s room. Timur is leaning low over Felwinter’s desk, poring over the maps and diagrams there. A solid, bright presence, conspicuous against the minimalist (barren) décor. From where Felwinter is standing, he can observe the elegant shape of Timur’s profile: the sharp jut of his brow, furrowed in concentration, his beak-like nose. It’s a familiar sight.

He had gone to Timur first instead of calling a council because even after all these years, Timur is still the bridge between Felwinter and the rest of the Iron Lords. Although Felwinter shares a building with most of his fellow Lords now, he’s no closer to them than he ever was. Some days it still feels as if he’s sitting upon that lonely peak, watching Timur’s distant figure ascend the slope.

“Where did you get this data, anyway?”

The question catches him off-guard. Felwinter pauses a moment too long, trying to determine how much to tell. “A Seraph bunker in Old Russia.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know.” Timur doesn’t even look up.

Felwinter stays very still. He doesn’t have his helmet to obscure his face, but even without it his expression stays meticulously blank. Felwinter is missing that particular human quirk, expressivity. He’s missing a lot of things.

He isn’t lying, but he also isn’t telling the whole truth. Timur would probably have something pedantic to say about this. ‘A lie by omission is still a lie.’ But Timur doesn’t get a chance to respond to Felwinter because Felwinter simply says nothing, does nothing.

The infuriating thing is: Timur knows him. Timur can read even his silences. Whatever it is that Timur gleans from Felwinter’s lack of response, it makes him step around the table and stand in front of him, close enough that Felwinter has to raise his head slightly to make eye contact.

“Felwinter.” Timur is uncharacteristically quiet. “I’m the only one that trusts you.”

“You don’t trust me,” Felwinter insists, suddenly intense. The old, familiar fear rises up. Get away, find a weapon, put your back to the wall. This is dangerous.

“You think I don’t trust you, or you don’t want me to trust you?”

Timur steps forward. Felwinter steps back, but not far enough. They’re nearly chest to chest. Felwinter focuses his gaze on the man’s collarbone. He can make out the rise and fall of Timur’s breath, the faint pulse at the join of his neck.

Felwinter has known for a long time that Timur has – affections – for him. Timur believes it’s mutual. Felwinter doesn’t know what to believe. They’ve ended up in bed with each other a few times before, but Felwinter thinks of the incidents as momentary lapses of judgment. Attachment is the noose with which he will strangle himself, if he isn’t careful. 

(He has to escape. He wants to be caught. He’s tired of running.)

A sigh. “It’s always like this between us. I can speak to you, I can touch you, but I can’t see you. Not really.”

Timur puts a warm hand on Felwinter’s shoulder. Gentle, damnably gentle. Felwinter locks every joint in his body to avoid leaning into it, or maybe to avoid biting the hand off. With Timur, it’s hard to separate the two. Desire and violence. Sex and death. Felwinter never feels more human than when Timur touches him.

“Lord Felwinter, the Darkhorse of Iron… what are you so afraid of?”

Timur. Himself. The insidious thing that sets his wiring alight with fear saying, runrunrunRUNRUN—

His back is to a corner of the room. Timur stands in front of him like a shield. No, like a cage. An obstacle. Something Felwinter must cut from himself, bloodily, like a fox chewing off its own leg to escape a trap.

To escape…

Timur says, amused: “Are you going to hurt me?”

Felwinter looks down at his hands. Void energy swirls around his fingers. He snuffs it out with a thought, disturbed.

 _Had_ he been about to hurt Timur? Would he have done it, if Timur hadn’t said something?

Does he want to?

“I’m the only one that trusts you,” Timur repeats, “because I know who you are.”

_I know who you are._

He can’t know. He can’t know because Felwinter will have to run again, and this time he won’t be able to stop running. He can’t know because Felwinter will kill him. Fear is a vicious alive thing in his chest. No – he’s jumping to conclusions. Don’t panic. (He’s panicking.) Felwinter resets his vocalizer once, twice, before managing to respond.

“And who am I?”

“You are the prey that bit the hand of the hunter. You are the prey who learned to become the predator, but you never stopped running. You can stop running, Felwinter.”

Timur doesn’t know. (Relief) Felwinter won’t have to kill him. (Relief relief) He thinks that Felwinter can stop running, can ever stop. (Hilarious—)

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I _can’t._ Not…” He shakes his head. “You’d have to make me stop.”

Timur’s eyes are dark and intent. “Is that what you want?”

What does Felwinter want? He wants to stop, but he can’t stop himself. He wants to stay, but he has to be forced. He wants things that he can’t grasp.

“I want you to—” Felwinter struggles to form the words. Struggles more to force them out. “—hold me down. Keep me still.”

“Here? Against the wall?”

That’s not what he means. He wants Timur to shoot him. He wants Timur to say, you can’t run, because I won’t let you. You can’t run because I’ll cut your legs off. You can’t run because I’ll take your life. But Timur would never do it.

Timur would never do it, which is why Felwinter lets him touch him. A second hand, on his waist.

He imagines Timur pinning him. Against the wall. Or into the mattress. Desire rises unbidden, blooming beneath his plating like pain. It mixes with the relief into something heady. If he were organic, he would blame it on adrenaline, but he’s not, so he has to accept the truth: he wants.

It’s a momentary lapse of judgment. A distraction. It happens to everyone.

“On the bed,” Felwinter says. An admission, an acquiescence.

Timur smiles. “Oh, is that so?”

They make it to the bed somehow. The details are lost to Felwinter, who’s far too preoccupied with the pressure of Timur’s large hands on his waist, hot through his thin shirt, the way his body curves around Felwinter’s own. It’s not the first time Timur has touched him like this, or even the second, but today Timur is different, today Timur grips him like you would a dangerous animal. Firm. Unyielding. Felwinter likes it, he thinks. He should be afraid, but he’s not, and that’s – good. It feels good.

Felwinter’s back hits the covers and Timur follows, straddling him.

“How do you want this?” Timur asks, although he’s already leaning forward to pin Felwinter’s hands over his head. He’s far too clever for his own good.

“Hold me down,” Felwinter repeats. “Restrain me. Like I might kill you.”

“You won’t,” Timur says.

“How do you know?”

“Like I said: I trust you.”

But Felwinter can’t trust himself. He struggles a little, just to test Timur’s hold, and the man clamps down like a pair of jaws around him, his hands on Felwinter’s wrists, his thighs keeping Felwinter’s body still. Timur is a strong man. He wouldn’t be able to escape unless he called on the Void, and he won’t, not now. Felwinter lets himself go limp.

Carefully, Timur changes his grip to pin Felwinter’s arms with a single hand. His free hand wanders down to Felwinter’s chest and rests on the hem of his shirt. One finger traces the exposed sliver of plating at his hip, teasingly.

“Tell me you want this, Felwinter. Say it.”

He wants it. He cannot want it. He needs Timur to rip up his plating and put his hands inside the wires and circuits of him, find a hollow deep enough where Felwinter can speak to him without fear, can finally whisper: I want this.

Instead Felwinter says: “Please,” and he doesn’t know if he’s begging for Timur’s hands or Timur’s gun.

What Timur gives him is his Light.

Just a spark, at first. Timur traces the edge of his hip plating and a line of heat follows, settling deep into his wiring. Then he pushes Felwinter’s shirt up and puts his whole palm against his chest, blue worms of Arc energy crawling all over his chassis, and his entire sensory network lights up with a pleasure bordering on pain.

Felwinter’s vocalizer clicks, stutters. “Timu-ur.”

“Good?”

He arches up into it in response, chasing. More, more. He would follow those blue worms of light to their source, if he could. Wrap his fingers around Timur’s bright heart and keep it for himself. Felwinter thinks, nonsensically, that there must be enough empty space in him for a heart. If he opened up his chest he could fit Timur inside. It would be safer that way.

A second wave of Arc washes through him. He jerks in Timur’s hold, nearly snaps something in his shoulders. He’s reminded that he’s trapped. He’s reminded of Timur’s closeness, how near the man’s body is. Felwinter looks up and Timur’s eyes are intent, backlit by Light, blown wide with lust.

“Again?”

“Again.”

A third wave, and then a fourth. Timur’s power washes in and out of him like the tide. Inexorable, all-consuming. Felwinter feels himself eroded, sanded down to base impulse. More, harder, faster. A heavy peace settles over him. He has no choice but to accept pleasure, and so he gives himself over to it entirely. If he could choose, he would always choose to run; even if it hurt him, even if he regretted it forever – he would run.

He can’t run now because Timur is holding him down. And Timur is holding him down because Felwinter asked. It’s the first time he’s chosen not to run, even if in a roundabout way. It makes him feel in control. Like for once, he is the master of his own fate.

Maybe that’s what gives him the courage to say: “Put your hand inside.”

Timur startles, Arc energy fizzling out. “What?”

“The area just below my… ribs. Left side. There’s a port.” Felwinter resets his vocalizer, tries to clear the static. “I’m opening it.”

It’s a maintenance port, usually used to feed auxiliary power if the core reactor gets damaged. Most Exos don’t know it exists, and even those who do can’t control it themselves. A human mind has no map to understand the manipulation of locks and hinges on a body. Felwinter does not have a human mind. The lock releases itself and the plate covering the port flips open, exposing raw copper and steel.

The port is only large enough to fit two of Timur’s fingers, but there’s something odd in his eyes as he hooks his fingers in. Felwinter feels it too. There’s something intensely intimate about the act of reaching inside another person’s body. He doesn’t have much sensation inside the port – it’s meant for maintenance, after all – but that ceases to matter when Timur starts pouring Arc energy straight into Felwinter’s internals.

Fed directly into his systems, Timur’s Light is overwhelming. He loses track of his body, of time. All that’s left is the heat. Felwinter is weightless, suspended in it; a single, unending moment of pure bliss. He imagines this must be what it feels like to die, to truly die. Not the pleasure, just the utter helplessness of it all. The rising tide of sensation threatens to obliterate him entirely, but he’s not afraid.

Because it’s Timur who’s holding him, he’s not afraid.

When Felwinter comes down from his climax Timur has his pants open and is working himself urgently, panting, lips parted and wet with his own saliva. His eyes are fixed on Felwinter’s face.

Felwinter wonders what he sees there, whether it’s something in his expression that makes Timur grip himself harder, stroke faster.

“You can come just like this,” Felwinter murmurs, watching. He’s entranced by the way Timur’s pupils dilate in response, the flush that rises on his neck. “On my chest.”

With a gasp, Timur does. The milky white of his semen stands out starkly against Felwinter’s black plate. Timur releases him with a shudder and collapses on the sheets.

In the silence of the aftermath, Felwinter can hear the servos in his shoulder joints whir quietly as he brings his arms back to his sides. And then – unable to help himself – he swipes a finger through the mess on his chest. Curiously, he tastes it.

Timur groans beside him. “Cut that out. I’m too tired for another round; you sucked all the Light out of me.”

Felwinter cycles his optical lights in an impression of blinking. “I apologize.”

“I know you aren’t sorry,” Timur says, but there’s no bite to it, only a warm humor.

They share the silence for a while. Felwinter wonders at the fact that he hasn’t left. His mind is unusually quiet, fears silenced, the usual need to run absent. He feels… safe.

A lie, but a comforting lie.

Felwinter has nearly drifted off into an idle cycle when Timur speaks.

“You’re confident about the information? SIVA is really there?”

“It’s there.”

“Then we’ll go.” Timur props himself up on an elbow, looks at him. There’s something tender in his expression that makes Felwinter want to run again. He beats down the impulse. “I’ll call a council. You’ll be attending, of course.”

“Of course,” Felwinter says quietly. 

And then: “Thank you.”


End file.
